


the kind of trouble you're not looking for

by calclutterfuck



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe - The O.C., Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:48:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23451211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calclutterfuck/pseuds/calclutterfuck
Summary: The O.C. AU that nobody asked for, and if they did, it's being delivered a few years too late.AnExcerpt:Dustin tells him to wait by the car when they pull up to a house that’s bigger than Mike’s ever seen. He makes his way to the bottom of the driveway, the car still in sight, and puts a lit cigarette between his teeth. “Hey,” a voice says to his right and he swivels to look instinctively.The guy is tall, gangly and long limbed. He’s got a mop of bleach blonde hair on his head, and a string of puka shells around his neck. “Can I bum one?”
Relationships: Jeff Carter/Mike Richards
Comments: 3
Kudos: 8





	the kind of trouble you're not looking for

**Author's Note:**

> Well, it's been awhile since I've posted anything. This has been sitting unfinished for more than _three years_ in a google doc. If y'all seem to like it, I could probably be persuaded to finish it. I've got so much free time now, considering the quarantine.  
>   
> Here's your friendly reminder to please not share this with anyone affiliated with the NHL/the players.  
>   
> Come share your opinions with me at my Tumblr: @joshhbailey.

Being in jail is nothing and everything like Mike's imagined. His wrists are bound by handcuffs as he walks, and a guard has a tight grip on the back of his neck as he’s shuffled forwards. “Public defender meeting, kid.” Mike passes through the barred doorway, a large buzz as he goes. The guy sitting at the bench is tall, taller than Mike, and his suits a little wrinkled. He looks like every other public defender Mike’s imagined, minus the fact he’s not balding and plus the detail that there’s a nice wedding band on his finger.  
  
He starts talking the second Mike sits down, “Dustin Brown,” he introduces, and holds out his hand for a shake, Mike reluctantly follows his direction, and shakes his hand. “Your test scores Mike, they’re… they’re in the 98th percentile. That’s college good,” Dustin looks the kid in his eyes, sees the flash of interest. “You ever think of anything like that?”  
  
Mike suddenly turns then, twists to look at him. He’s still defiant and angry, wrapped inside the dark blue prison jumpsuit. “College is a pipedream, and where I’m from having a dream isn’t smart.” He watches as Dustin’s face turns, mentions something about Mike being a smart kid. “Being smart is knowing it won’t happen.”  
  
They finish up quick after that, and Dustin decides to wait with the kid after he’s been released. Mike looks different in his street clothes, younger and a little like he’s playing someone he’s not. An oversized hoodie and tight jeans, his face still pinched in defiance. His stomach turns as a car pulls up, a real juker; mismatched colors and dents in the door.  
  
The woman who gets out isn’t much more put together, her jean skirt a relic from ten years ago, and too much make-up painted on her face. “Michael! Michael Richards--get in the car.” She’s raving as she talks, hands waving. A cigarette is locked between two of her fingers.  
  
“What did I ever do to deserve a kid like you; you’re going to end up just like your daddy…” Her face twists and she sinks into the driver's side seat. “Rotting in jail.”  
  
Dustins’ stomach lurches, and he scrambles to pull a business card out of his pocket. He writes down his home number on, and shoves it in Mike’s hands before he can tuck himself into the beaten up car and away. “Call me for anything.”  
  
  
\--  
  
  
Mike goes home and watches his mom pour two stiff drinks in quick succession. He flinches and tries to apologise, his throat dry. “Mom, I’m sorry. Really,” he says, and listens to the snort of disapproval and disbelief that comes from the couch.  
  
“You’ve got something to say?” He scowls, and directs a kick at the decrepit recliner.  
  
“Michael!” His mother hisses, her voice tight. “Apologise to Alvin.”  
  
Alvin stands, his six foot two inches looming as he stalks over and glares at Mike. “Yeah Michael,” Alvin sneers. “Apologise.”  
  
  
  
\--  
  
  
Mike has a bloody lip and a black eye when he calls Dustin, and his last two quarters are sitting at the bottom of the payphone. He’s spent his last fifteen dollars on a new pack of smokes and a lighter, the rest turned to his spare change to call people. Every “Any chance I can crash tonight?” is met with advice to call someone else or rejections paired with apologies. Dustin picks up, and when he hears the slightly lispy voice on the other end, he tells him to wait by the Quickway.  
  
Dustin pulls up to the curb twenty minutes later, and Mike stubs out his cigarette quickly with bruised knuckles. He looks different than before, less like a public defender and more like someone who rushed out his house last minute. Instead of a suit he's wearing jeans and a blue hoodie with a front design that's too faded for Mike to read. He smiles at Mike when he gets in the car, and Mike notices he's missing a tooth.  
  
Mike doesn't ask, but he must make a face because Dustin laughs as he throws the car into drive.  
  
  
\--  
  
  
Dustin tells him to wait by the car when they pull up to a house that’s bigger than Mike’s ever seen. He makes his way to the bottom of the driveway, the car still in sight, and puts a lit cigarette between his teeth. “Hey,” a voice says to his right and he swivels to look instinctively.  
  
The guy is tall, gangly and long limbed. He’s got a mop of bleach blonde hair on his head, and a string of puka shells around his neck. “Can I bum one?”  
  
Mike studies him; from his boat shoes to his embossed button down. He steps forwards, pulling out another cigarette as he goes. He hands it to the guy, and leans forwards to light it with his own; already lit. “What’s your name?”  
  
“Jeff.” He says, and puffs out some smoke. “And you?” Jeff asks, a smirk on his face.  
  
Mike doesn’t know why he gives a shit what this neighbor wearing puka shells as a necklace thinks, but suddenly everything in his body clenches. He decides to do a fake-out: “Mike. The cousin from Boston,” It’s a bold lie--he knows he doesn’t have the accent and this guy seems to be smart enough to figure it out, but Mike doesn’t exactly want to spew his life story to a stranger over cigarettes and with dried blood on his knuckles.  
  
Mike can tell the guy knows he’s lying when his goofy smirk seems to widen, get deeper. “Boston, huh?” He inhales deeply, and then lets the smoke hang in the air silently for a moment. Mike’s about to say something, keep the conversation going, but a car roaring to life and speeding towards the two of them ends the moment.  
  
Mike jumps back a few paces, narrowly avoiding the tires of the large truck. Jeff climbs in without a second thought, dropping the cigarette he’d bummed from Mike carelessly. He throws a wave out the window and vanishes.  
  
Vaguely, Mike has the thought of following. That’s ridiculous, he decides, he doesn't even know the guy.  
  
There’s a large hand clapping down on Mike’s shoulder that pulls him from further thought, he flinches slightly, and looks up to see the apologetic look slide over Dustin’s face. “Uh, sorry.” Dustin says, voice bashful.  
  
Mike says nothing, willing his face not to flush with embarrassment. Mike should not be jumping around at sudden movements. Mike should not be afraid of a light tap on the shoulder. Mike should-- he shakes his head and takes one last hit off his cigarette. He notices it’s nearly done. He ashes it, looks back up at Dustin. “Don’t worry about it. I just wasn’t expecting anyone.”  
  
Dustin isn’t quite sure, but there’s a space long enough to shove in a I wasn’t expecting anyone to care about me. He leaves it be. “You can come on inside now,” Dustin says, ignoring the pause. “And uh, you really can’t do that while you’re here.”  
  
Mike looks up, scrunches his face slightly in confusion.  
  
Dustin grins, “No smoking here, bud, believe me, it’s trouble you’re not looking for.”  
  
Distantly, walking next to Dustin up the long driveway, Mike’s thoughts trail back to the boy in the puka shell necklace--Jeff. He wonder’s if that’s another kind of trouble he’s found that he wasn’t looking for.


End file.
